Heat Wave: Manheim

Chapter 1 The loud trumpeting of heralds’ horns announced the arrival of the knights. Their names were called as each man entered the arena, and the crowd cheered accordingly. The king and queen sat watching, both the image of regal stoicism. The knights charged around the jousting field, banners snapping in the wind, dust and sand flying from beneath their horses’ hooves. All hoped to earn the favors of the crowd. Out beyond the field that acted as a parking lot, a siren blared, getting louder and softer as it passed. Wes barely noticed at first, but it was too out of place in their humble grove. Fortunately, it didn’t last long enough to interrupt the start of the joust. The opening speeches were word for word as they had been the previous day, and would remain largely unchanged until the end of the season. Wes imagined he might be able to recite it himself by October. He longed for the cool relief of autumn. Two days into the latest Pennsylvania Renaissance Faire and temperatures were peaking. The weather forecasts said the rest of August would be equally brutal. Nevertheless, there was work to be done. Wes meandered through the crowd of people who had come to watch the joust. “Flowers for sale!” he called. “Wondrous flowers that neither wilt nor fade! Two dollars apiece! Three for five dollars!” He gripped his basket of wooden and metal flowers with sweaty hands. His water flask bounced against his hip, but he wasn’t dying of thirst yet. He wanted to make a full circuit of the audience before he stopped, then he could watch the joust, too. Several Renaissance Faire employees were spurring the crowd’s cheers. One side called out, “Fight for right!” and the other shouted, “Cheat to win!” Wes found the whole Good versus Evil motif clichéd, but it was entertaining and considerably less confusing than the historical Renaissance alliances. Furthermore, they had a new crew of knights this year. One of the knights was a returning actor with the Bacchanalian Acting Company, although he had only been the reserve knight in case any of the others couldn’t perform in previous years. On the “good” side, they had Sir Wallace, Earl of Westmorland, and Sir Charles, Lord of Woodcroft. Opposite them were Sir Fulke, Lord of Dunsany, and Sir Rowland, Baron of Ravenstone. Their real names were Robert, Carlo, Hal, and Jeff, respectively, but Wes had only met them all briefly the day before. They seemed like great guys, and Wes looked forward to when the Faire closed so he could hang out with them. “Flowers for sale!” Wes announced again, quieter this time so people could hear what was going on. He stopped by a group of children standing with their parents. One little girl in a polyester gown and plastic tiara clung to her father’s leg, but smiled up at Wes from behind her hand. “Would the pretty princess like a pretty flower?” Wes asked. “Only two dollars apiece, and these are magic flowers that will stay pretty forever.” The little girl tugged her father’s hand. “Please, Daddy? Please please please! I want a pink one!” Her father sighed, but pulled out his wallet. Suddenly several other children piped up, all asking for flowers. After some compromising, Wes ended up selling six flowers for ten dollars, four wooden and two metal. He bowed to the parents and the children, bade them a good day, and wandered to a less occupied shady area to watch the joust and wait for more customers. Nearly all the trees were surrounded by people trying to get out of the direct sunlight. Wes had seen scarcely a cloud all morning, and now in the early afternoon the temperature was nearing ninety degrees. The upside to this was all the Faire-goers who showed up topless. Plenty of the women who attended in period dress had opted for outfits with minimum fabric, some in “shirts” that were little more than bikini tops with strings hanging down to cover their midriffs. However, Wes was preoccupied checking out all the buff, young, sweaty men in nothing but kilts and knee-high boots. He was required to wear a shirt, but he chose a loose, lightweight fabric, and he wore his own kilt in true Scotsman style. Wes could only find a shady place to stand near the field’s entrance, where the circular path around the audience funneled back towards the Faire grounds. A few people were trickling in, fashionably late for the event, and Wes quietly and politely offered them flowers. They all waved him off, but Wes decided to stick around to catch the flood of potential customers after the joust ended. His view was partially obscured by other trees, but he had seen everything the day before and could tell what was happening from the cheers. First, the knights warmed up by doing a series of accuracy tests, catching rings on their lances and striking shields held up by other actors. Everyone watched with bated breath, many no doubt hoping for some sort of disaster to happen. Next, the joust proper began, Wallace against Rowland and Charles against Fulke. As the bad guys, Rowland and Fulke used underhanded tactics, causing the “good” supporters to boo. Eventually a swordfight on horseback broke out between Wallace and Rowland, while Charles fought off Fulke from the ground after Fulke knocked him off his horse. Finally, Wallace and Rowland challenged each other to a duel to the death, which would take place at sundown. As the spectators milled back to the main Faire grounds, Wes called out, “Flowers for sale! Flowers for sale!” He grinned as a group of people came over to inspect the contents of his basket. Everyone else was getting distracted by the knights who had come out to meet and greet their fans. Wes crept closer, trying to take advantage of their popularity to gain more interest in his wares. The good knights had come out first. Children holding toy swords and shields posed with them for pictures and adolescents got in close for selfies. A few girls tried to flirt with Sir Charles, and Wes didn’t blame them. Sir Wallace was much older, his hair almost completely silver and his face showing signs of wear, but Sir Charles was young and handsome with brown hair grown down to his shoulders and a cleanly shaven face. “Sir Wallace!” Up from the arena strutted Sirs Rowland and Fulke. Rowland had a particularly smug swagger in his step. He smirked and said, “I do look forward to our duel this evening. Too bad you won’t be able to celebrate with me afterward.” “‘Tis true,” Sir Charles interjected. “Only because he will put you down like the lame dog you are, Lord of Jackals.” Sir Rowland snorted. “Quiet yourself, boy. You are Wallace’s second, so you’ll likely have to face me as well, and a quick tongue won’t save you then.” “Pay him no mind,” said Sir Wallace. “As you said, he is but a lame dog, barking madly to cover for his lack of bite. Let us away, Sir Charles, and enjoy this fine festival day.” As the two knights passed Wes, he heard Carlo drop his character, though not his English accent, to mutter to Robert, “I need to dunk my head in a bucket of cold water, and then drink it.” Robert laughed. “You and me both, lad.” Just the mention of water made Wes realize how thirsty he was. He grabbed his flask and downed half the contents before he came up for air. The water was getting warm, but it was still cooler than the ambient temperature, so Wes savored every drop. His throat moderately satisfied, he went back to his sales pitch. The crowd dissipated quickly, eager to get back to the shops and out of the sun. Wes trudged along with them, mentally plotting out his route. The voice of another wandering merchant filled the air. “Pickles! Sweet, cold pickles! A perfect treat for a hot day!” Wes headed towards the sound of the cart rattling across the ground. “What ho! Good merchant!” he exclaimed. Jared the pickle vendor had started working Faire two seasons ago, same as Wes, and the two were good friends. Wes trotted over to him with a smile. “Did I hear you say you have pickles?” Jared smiled back, his pink cheeks dripping with sweat. “I did indeed, sir. And you strike me as the sort of man who enjoys a good pickle.” He opened the lid on his wooden cart. “Each one is crisper and colder than the last!” Peering into the briny box, Wes said, “Hmm, I’m not sure. Those are awfully large pickles. I don’t know how I could possibly fit one in my mouth!” “They’re very slick pickles,” Jared said. “If you open your mouth wide enough, they’ll slide right in!” “But if they’re so slippery, won’t I lose my grip and drop it? I wouldn’t want my pickle to get dirty.” “That’s why God made pickles with bumps and ridges, my good man.” He added in a lower voice with a wink, “Not just for your pleasure.” He continued in his normal volume, “Or I could put it on a stick for you. Surely you could handle grabbing a stick, even if it is a little stick.” Wes bit back a snort of laughter. Even after a few years of pickle innuendos, Wes still giggled like a teenager at the right play on words. Composing himself, he said, “I’m sorry, but I must decline. What would happen if I got pickle juice on my nice flowers? No one wants sloppy flowers reeking of pickle juice.” Jared nodded. “Ah, yes, I wouldn’t want to accidentally de-flower a flower merchant. That would be terrible business for us both! Perhaps, instead, I can interest you in a bottle of water?” “A bottle of water?” Wes exclaimed, raising his voice so more people could hear. “By God, man, why didn’t you say you had cold water for sale? We could have skipped all this silly banter and cut right to the chase! How much for a bottle of cold water?” “Why, only a dollar fifty, in the local currency. Even such a poorly merchant as yourself could afford one!” “Excellent well! I shall purchase a bottle of water! Thank you, generous vendor!” Wes adjusted his basket further up his arm so he could reach into his sporran. He had to nudge the fanny pack containing his till out of the way. Somehow in doing so he accidentally turned on his phone, which he didn’t notice until he had already pulled out his wallet. He got two dollars to give to Jared, then checked his phone surreptitiously as he put his wallet back in the pouch. It was barely past noon, and yet he had five missed calls and three new texts, all from the same person. “Here is your change, good sir,” Jared said, holding out the quarters. “Thank you,” Wes said, temporarily losing his lighthearted nature as he scowled down at his phone. Snapping back to his job, he said, much more affably, “I shall empty this into my flask and dispose of the bottle in a proper waste receptacle!” “See that you do,” said Jared. “We must keep the realm clean. Wouldn’t want His Majesty to trip over common trash as he walks among his people!” “Indeed. Farewell, noble pickle vendor.” “Fare thee well, sweet flower merchant.” Wes moved out of the way so other people could purchase pickles and water. He filled his flask and drank the remaining water, then went off to find a recycling bin, and a secluded place to check his phone more thoroughly. He headed up O’Malley’s Alley to the men’s restroom. There was a show on at O’Malley’s Stage, which he told himself he would hit up once he took care of this problem. Ducking around the side of the restroom, he retrieved his phone from his sporran and, checking around for eavesdroppers, called the number that had plagued him. A voice answered after half a ring. “There you are!” It was, to Wes’s great displeasure, Phillip, his recent ex. “I’ve been calling you all morning! I was about to leave for my flight. Where have you been?” “I’m at Faire,” Wes hissed quietly, still using the Faire dialect. “Remember? It started yesterday?” “What? You’re still at that dead-end job? Especially in this heat, I wouldn’t be caught dead out there. I guess that explains why you’re speaking funny.” Wes groaned and rolled his eyes. Keeping an eye out for anyone who could get him in trouble, he dropped the accent and said, “What do you want?” “Well, like I said, I’m flying out soon and I thought you were going to come by and see me off. Maybe we could have talked a little before I left.” “There’s nothing to talk about, Phillip. It’s over, and I need to get back to work.” Phillip sighed. “Okay, I get it, you’re still in a mood. I don’t know what I did wrong, but I wish you would tell me. I’ll be gone two weeks and I don’t want this to stew that long.” “It’s not—everything is wrong, Phillip! That’s why I left you! We’re not going to talk this out because it’s beyond help. You are beyond help. Stop. Calling me.” “Uh-huh, yeah, honey, I’m getting another call, and then I’ve got to go. I’ll call you later tonight after I land. Uh, have fun, I guess. Love you, bye.” “Don’t you—” But Phillip had already hung up. Wes clenched his fist and gritted his teeth. This was one of the many, many reasons Wes had decided to break off their relationship. Not only was Phillip a self-entitled man-brat, he was also completely self-involved. Everything had to revolve around him, even Wes’s life. Granted, Phillip had been in the closet when Wes met him, and Wes thought it was a romantic gesture that Phillip had come out so they could make their relationship official, but looking back it seemed that was yet another reason for Phillip to say, “Hey everyone! Look at me! I’m doing something important!” and Wes was merely a prop in his little dramatic production. Phillip was a management analyst for a law firm whom Wes had met at a hole-in-the-wall gay bar in Philadelphia a year and a half prior. He was a good six years older than Wes, almost in his thirties whereas Wes was barely out of college at the time. Wes was flattered by the attention, and the steady stream of drinks Phillip kept buying for him. Furthermore, Phillip was a sweet-talker by trade, using his silver tongue to get everyone to do things his way. Even though he didn’t come out of the closet until four months into their relationship, he always knew what to say to charm Wes back to his side. Recently, however, Wes had been thinking about his future, and he realized how unhealthy their relationship actually was. He had chosen now to break up with Phillip because Phillip was traveling to Canada to work with new clients and would be gone for a while, sparing Wes from his company. Wes growled to himself. He should have known it wouldn’t be that easy. Phillip was persistent. What he wanted, he got. If he couldn’t get it easily, he would assert himself until whoever had it bent to his will. At first Wes had admired this tenacity, lauding it as passion and ambition. Now, after being on the receiving end so many times, it annoyed and infuriated him. He pressed his phone’s power button with more force than necessary, picked up his basket of flowers, and went back to the Faire grounds with the brightest smile he could muster.